Deadgirl

by B. C. Johnson

  Morgan was gorgeous. Long blonde hair, of course, fell in perfect waves around her chiseled face. Wide green eyes didn’t beat mine for more interesting, but definitely seemed to bring in the boys better. High cheek-bones, pouty lips.

  Body like a twenty-three-year-old Hollywood actress playing a sixteen-year-old high school student, and the clothes to accentuate it. Tall.

  I wanted to put my fist through her face sometimes. It didn’t help that as she appeared from the gate, she had a guy on each side of her laughing at something that probably wasn’t funny. Uck. They both had that puppy-dog look on their face.

  They peeled off of her as she approached my mom’s car—no one wanted to be seen near the Goblin mobile. Morgan smiled and tossed her messenger-bag on top of the car’s roof. Even her backpack was cooler than mine.

  “How’s it going?” Voice like honey. Why did I hang out with her? Was I masochist or something?

  “Oh, you know, post-mathematic stress disorder,” I said.

  “I hear they have a clinic for that,” Morgan said, and leaned against the car next to me.

  “Disneyland?”

  “Isn’t Knott’s cooler now?”

  I shrugged, “Haven’t taken a poll in a while. Isn’t Knott’s just filled with freshmen boys trying to make out with junior high girls?”

  “Point,” Morgan said, playing with her bottom lip, staring out into the rapidly filling parking lot. “I don’t think I can do Disneyland for a while.”

  My heart sank. Getting high on twelve pounds of sugar and riding Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride was my favorite therapeutic outing. What could possibly keep her home? I thought of her deaf cousin Lance who visited sometimes, but usually he loved Disneyland just as much as we did.

  “Why not?”

  “Grounded.”

  “Why? Since when?”

  Morgan shrugged. “My mom found out about my detention yesterday. She grounded me via text message.”

  “That’s just impersonal.”

  Morgan had a detention for being late for the fourth time to Chemistry—she’d played off the detention to her mom by saying that she was staying after school to tutor a friend. Apparently the great parental phone chain had let Morgan down—it was a rookie mistake. She should have asked me to stay after school, too, thus corroborating her story. Morgan wasn’t stupid, despite what her appearance might suggest—but when it came to trouble, she was far too naïve. I think she thought, even subconsciously, that her looks would get her out of trouble. Granted, they usually did, but not where her parents were concerned.

  When it came to mischief, she was the Watson to my Holmes.

  “Describe this grounding to me. No going out tonight or no going out this week?”

  “The second one.”

  “What?” I nearly shouted. Morgan’s eyes went wide. “Sorry. I just mean, for one detention?”

  Morgan sighed. “Mom is trying to crack down. She gave me the ole ‘if your father were here’ routine.”

  Ouch. I didn’t like to think about Morgan’s dad—I couldn’t even imagine what it was like to have my dad run out to get groceries. In Alabama. Forever.

  “That’s low,” I said.

  “Yeah, whatever, I just want to get home,” Morgan said, grabbing her bag and reaching for the door. “Just don’t say anything to anyone.”

  I nodded and grabbed my bag. I slid into the passenger side as Morgan got into the back. We closed the doors at the same time.

  Mom sat behind the wheel, grooving along to a Beatles song. “Help,” I think. I didn’t share my mom’s love of the oldies—I liked them, but I think it was a nostalgia thing from my childhood. Mom and Dad used to blast oldies songs while they ate dinner, or cleaned, or...well, anything that didn’t require sound, really.

  Mom had her Mom hair up into a tiny ponytail. She had the same nearly-black, straight as an arrow hair that I did, but she tended to keep it in a short bob. Her ponytail did little to hold up her hair—most of it still fell into her face. She was cute, and had only a little weight on me. Our major difference in appearance was relegated to height, mostly—I was a good four inches taller than her. From my super-tall dad, I imagine.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  Mom turned the Beatles down, reluctantly, and shrugged. She put the car in reverse and glanced over her shoulder as she backed up.

  “Oh, you know. I didn’t get off my shift until about an hour ago.”

  “Wow,” Morgan said. “You look great for pulling a twelve hour shift without sleep.”

  My mom smiled, “From you, that means almost nothing, dear. Thanks, though.”

  Morgan blushed. She knew how pretty she was, but had somehow managed to avoid a good chunk of the arrogance usually implied by that. I imagine it’s because her transformation was recent—in junior high she’d been tall and skinny and unmistakably mannish. The un-clever nickname MorMAN had been stapled to her at that age. No one called her that anymore that I knew. Most of the bullies were too busy hitting on her now.

  “What about you gals?” Mom asked.

  “Okay,” Morgan began. “We vegged during volleyball. Coach Lark had cramps or something.”

  Volleyball may have been part of her appeal, I thought. Boys loved a hot girl in tiny shorts. I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair. I would have slipped my ear buds on and drifted away to MP3 land, but my mom hated them and was just as likely to slap them out of my ears than ask me to take them off.

  “Are you team captain yet, Morgan?” Mom asked.

  “I’m only a sophomore, Mrs. D.,” Morgan laughed.

  “Right, right,” Mom said. “I always forget that you’re the same age as my Lucy. You look so grown up.”

  I longed for ear buds. Or a sharp hammer-blow to the temple.

  “What about you, Luce?” Mom asked. “Your day?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Do you mind if Wanda comes over later?”

  Mom shrugged. Wanda was so vanilla-plain and unobjectionable that my requests to hang out with her were rarely denied, if even questioned. It was a fact I had yet to take advantage of, but something I’d long ago filed away for future use. I offered information anyway—it built good credit for the times I didn’t.

  “Wanda needs to fix a bunch of fliers,” I said.

  Mom nodded. Morgan leaned forward from the backseat.

  “Mind if I come over, Mrs. D.?”

  I shot Morgan a surprised look. Her eyes widened and snapped back to normal, and I took the hint. I sat back in my seat and pretended everything was cool.

  “Sure thing, honey,” Mom said. “I guess we’re having a little party tonight.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. D.,” Morgan said.

  I didn’t turn around to look at her. I had no idea what she was up to, or why, but I decided to ride it out anyway. After a moment, Morgan spoke up again.

  “I still need to swing by my place first, if that’s okay?”

  Mom made a mmm-hmm noise, cranked up the Beatles, and pulled into the long line of traffic trying to escape Atlanta High. The Beatles told us that yesterday all our troubles seemed so far away. I didn’t bother asking another question.

  We swung by Morgan’s mom’s mildly-crappy apartment—ever since her dad had left, she and her mom had been living pretty tight. Morgan was back to the car in minutes with a wide smile and an overnight bag—she must have begged or pleaded or thrown herself at her mother’s mercy something fierce.

  Our house sat in an okay neighborhood—next to Morgan’s place, it felt positively palatial. Morgan had never made me feel guilty. In fact, when I brought my feelings up, she laughed them off. If jealousy ran through her brain very often, she didn’t show it. Which made me feel twice the rat for being so envious of her.

  Mom pulled into the driveway, and Morgan and I jumped out of the car. She grabbed my hand and yanked so hard that I nearly forgot my backpack. Morgan ran me at the house like she was charging a castle—I only just got my keys out before she whip
ped me towards the door.

  When we got inside, Morgan raced up the hallway stairs two at a time. Her energy was contagious, I couldn’t help myself. I darted up the stairs after her.

  “Slow down or you’re gonna break your…”

  My dad’s shout didn’t make it out of his office intact.

  Morgan was already lying sideways across my bed when I got there. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. I crossed my arms and let a suspicious look radiate off of me for a while. She gave me a smug smile, but I wasn’t breaking first. I busied myself by letting my eyes drift around my room.

  A year ago, the room would have made me shudder. Candy-pink wallpaper hugging every wall. The huge cartoonish flowers on the print leaning drunkenly at me from every direction. Horrifying. It reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, and not in the good way. My mom and dad had decided to infect my room when I’d gone away to Outdoor Ed, and I’d returned to find my lovely room defiled. It had taken me three years to get them to recant.

  I’d succeeded last year with the I’m in high school now argument. Even to them, pink and flowery was too much for any teenager to have to bear. Me, Morgan, Sara, and Daphne had raided the Home Depot for paint and equipment on Dad’s dime and made a weekend of redecorating.

  Now the walls were a warm amber color that filled me with calm rather than pink terror. We’d even got my dad to sand my old white dresser and paint it black. Most of my furniture was black now, I noticed. Not emo black—classy black.

  No posters of shirtless teenage heart throbs—that was Morgan’s room, no paintings—Wanda’s room, just pictures. My walls were coated with picture frames, and they spilled out onto my dresser, my desk, my bookshelf. My friends, most engaged in either ridiculous pose or ridiculous dress, looked out at me from every direction.

  I sat down at my little corner desk to check my email when Morgan cleared her throat.

  I rotated my office chair slowly, my fingers steepled in my lap. I did my best super-villain impression. Morgan tossed her bright pink cell phone to me. I caught it by virtue of luck.

  “Read,” she said.

  The phone displayed a text message, from…

  Zack. My heart flip-flopped. My mouth went dry. I looked up at Morgan, who was still smiling.

  “Read it!”

  I glanced down again, but had trouble making out the small glowing letters. They were blurry, insubstantial. I shook my head and tried to focus. I glanced at the time—she’d received the text minutes ago. Maybe right when we climbed into Mom’s car.

  Hey M. Going 2 the Set tomorrow night. You and friend should come. Bring Luce too. You down?

  My heart didn’t flip-flop this time—it stopped. I sucked air that wasn’t nourishing enough, and what had to be a Helm’s Deep of butterflies raged in my stomach. Morgan was next to me all of a sudden, pulling me out of the chair.

  “What does that mean, huh?” Morgan asked.

  “I…I don’t know,” I said. My lips felt numb. “He wants a friend to come, too. Maybe it’s just a triple date or something.”

  Morgan made a ‘that’s right, dumbass’ face.

  “Oh. Oh! Do you think?”

  She nodded.

  “Doesn’t that seem kinda…forward? We barely talk to each other.”

  “Maybe he’s nervous,” Morgan said. “He is somewhat unpredictable.”

  “True,” I said. It’s one of the reasons for my quasi-obsession. “But we tried this last year.”

  “Just flirting,” Morgan said. “That’s not anything.”

  “Yeah, but we flirted like crazy,” I said. “And he never once asked me out.”

  “Did he ask anyone else out?”

  I frowned. I didn’t need her pity-logic.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It means everything,” Morgan said. “Maybe he’s not allowed to date or something.”

  I bit my lip. It could be right—it certainly explained his reluctance.

  “Maybe he’s allowed to date now that he’s a sophomore,” Morgan said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But he’s been a sophomore for a month and a half.”

  “Give the guy a little time to work up some nerve,” Morgan said, turned, and shoved me at the bed.

  I fell in a heap and threw my arms over my face. I wanted to agree with her—but agreeing with her meant surrendering my shields. It meant putting aside my cynicism and allowing hope in. But hope had fangs, something I’d figured out last year. Hope was great until it was ripped away, leaving a wound much deeper than loneliness could.

  I looked up at Morgan, who stood triumphantly with her arms crossed over her chest. I wanted to hug her and punch her all at once.

  “You’re grounded,” I said. “And whatever mind trick you pulled on your mom isn’t going to work for going to the Set.”

  Morgan collapsed into my office chair and bit her lip. She made a hmmm sound, deep in her chest.

  “What did you say to your mom, anyway?”

  Morgan smiled, though her face still looked thoughtful and far-away.

  “Just told her that you and me and Wanda were having a study party here,” she said. “And I told her I’d call her every hour from your house phone to check in.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s not actually far from the truth. Still, how are you going to manage that miraculous feat tomorrow?”

  “So you’re going?”

  I dropped my arms back over my face. I wanted to vomit. Like, the actual urge to vomit gripped me. I took a deep breath, and Morgan squealed.

  “If you can figure out your grounding, I’m in,” I said. Vomit. Here comes vomit.

  Morgan tapped her chin, “I’m working on it.”

  We burned a few minutes scheming, but gave up, temporarily, in frustration.

  We watched old sitcom reruns in silence for a while, but I couldn’t focus. My mind wouldn’t settle on one topic—it jumped violently between possibilities that seemed both in reach and totally impossible.

  I thought of Zack’s face, too. Well, the lip part of that face, specifically.

  Wanda broke us out of our stupors with eyes full of tears. She burst into my room like a hurricane and slammed the door behind her. Morgan and I both sat up. Wanda collapsed to her knees, her arms tucked tightly against her chest.

  Morgan and I exchanged glances, both paralyzed by the hysterics.

  “Oh no…” Wanda moaned, her chin tucked against her chest.

  I jumped off the bed and slid to her side. Dread twisted my stomach into a long chain of knots. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she jerked like I’d shocked her. She turned her long tear-streaked face up to mine.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Wanda shook her head and shot her eyes back to her navel.

  “Wanda!” Morgan shouted.

  Morgan jumped off the bed and knelt in front of her. She didn’t look sympathetic—she looked angry. I leaned back a little.

  “Wanda, what is it?” Morgan demanded.

  Wanda caught her tone, too, and looked up sheepishly.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she said. “I know this is stupid. I feel so stupid for acting this way.”

  “Don’t feel stupid,” Morgan said. “Just let us help.”

  We sat in silence for a while, waiting for her to work up the courage. Finally, she sucked in a deep shuddering breath and turned her face up.

  “It’s Tyler,” Wanda said.

  I tried to hold my tongue, but the words came out before my brain could okay them.

  “Tyler? Wanda! He’s a scum bag.”

  Wanda’s lip trembled and her body threatened to shake apart. I felt awful—that was the second time that day I’d lashed out at her without thinking. Sometimes I wondered if I kept her around to beat up on. I’m an awful human.

  Still, Tyler was a scum bag. Just a loser who Wanda was hung up on, primarily because he gave her the male attention no one else did. She wanted them to be dating, and maybe some twisted par
t of her thought they were—Tyler was content to ignore her in public and make out with her in private. Luckily, Wanda was either too smart or too shy to let him get away with anything more.

  I did sympathize, somewhat. If Zack were meaner and showing interest in me, I couldn’t say I’d act any differently. Girls suck. Well, guys suck too, I guess.

  Wow. Fifteen-years-old and already bitter. Time to sign up for the Cat-A-Month Club and buy blocky black shoes.

  “You don’t know,” Wanda said. “He’s n-nice, when it’s just us.”

  I rolled my eyes, and luckily Wanda wasn’t looking. Morgan punched me in the arm anyway. She hit hard, too—all that volleyball spiking made her arms into little skinny pistons.

  “What did he do?” Morgan asked. Her anger was returning. Her voice shook with it.

  This wasn’t the usual protective-friend-shtick. I gave her a questioning look, but her blank face betrayed nothing. Wanda stared at Morgan like she was the bad cop and Wanda had indeed killed her own husband with an icepick.

  “N-nothing. Nothing like you’re thinking,” Wanda said. “He called me after school and told me that…I asked him if we were going to the Winter Formal or not. I didn’t think he’d want to, of course. I just wanted to know for sure, and I kind of hoped…”

  Her chin went back to her chest like she had a magnet in her face and a steel ribcage. Which, is an odd simile, I admit. Morgan’s anger didn’t relent at the sight, but mine did. I felt only pity.

  “Well, he said no. He pretended like we were nothing. He said he’s going with Lisa Barnes. Stupid, skanky Lisa Barnes.”

  Wanda growled and slammed her shoulders against the door behind her. It cheered me up a little, I realized. I’m no psychiatrist, I thought, but her anger seemed good. Right. Plus, Lisa Barnes was a skank.

  “I’m sorry, hon,” Morgan said. She leaned down and pulled Wanda into her arms. Wanda sank into them like she had no bones.

  “You’re better off,” I said. “Plus, I’m sure I’ll be flying solo for the dance. Why don’t you go with me?”